


A House of Bones Left to Stand on

by The_Amarathine_Carrion



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Broken Bones, Childhood Trauma, Dark fic, Introspection, Malnutrition, Memories, Mild Gore, Sad Sylvain Jose Gautier, Sylvain Jose Gautier Needs A Hug, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:01:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23226763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Amarathine_Carrion/pseuds/The_Amarathine_Carrion
Summary: Miklan is disinherited as heir of House Gautier in Imperial year 1177.Sylvain doesn’t see him again until the Verdant Rain Moon of Imperial year 1180.Sometime in-between, his ghost begins wandering the shadows of Fodlan, unaware that they will meet once more in the place of his death days before the reunion of the Millennium Festival.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

_Nothing good comes from a day like this._

Sylvain lifts his head to frown at the ashen branches serving as a useless shelter from the rising cacophony of Fraldarius winds. There’s a storm he won’t be able to canter ahead of settling comfortably, cornering him into postponing his destination in favor of yet another abandoned refuge. He’s seen enough of them to know— twenty-five years worth of pervading chills and close calls slipping in the mud. 

They’re wild here, and unpredictable past a certain point. He didn’t have much time before his horse would become too difficult to console from atop of his back. Sylvain urges him along, a gentle stroke of his mane, eyes scanning the barren fields while he does his best to stay composed. He’s pretty certain he’s strayed too far East. It’s warmer than he’d expect, especially with the biting premonition whipping any of his exposed skin raw. 

A landmark is a hefty gift to ask for these days. Fraldarius as he remembers it was one of the more affluent territories, and they took great care to ensure their lands were easy to navigate. It’s different now; nothing has remained untouched by the war. If people lived here once, there’s nothing left to speak of it.

Felix would know the spot upon which he trod by the feeling of his bare feet alone, but he is not here to lead him. There are no taunts or scoffs to fill the silence pounding away in Sylvain’s ears. There are no biting remarks to make the corners of his mouth twitch. There’s no one to pretend not to listen and groan when he fails to turn a particularly lascivious phrase. Sylvain is alone. 

It’s been five years and he’s not used to it yet. He can’t hear his friends anymore. He hardly sees them in his sleep, but they live in his shadows. The warmth of their doorways are phantom heartstrings that tauten in his chest when he thinks of their touch. It’s where he’s heading. It’s where they promised they’d be. 

A line of skeleton trees, burnt in many places, give him some direction to work with. There are various, oblong shapes beyond their horizon— perhaps the homes of those who caused the damage. It could have just been lightning, but he takes the chance anyway. 

It’s definitely a lead. A fetid smell rises when he passes them and he keeps his eyes trained ahead, picking up the pace, wanting to push quickly to a place where he can find the illusion of rest. Dry, cracked fingers cling to the reins of his horse more firmly than his spirit clings to life. 

_It’s just more of the same,_ Sylvain thinks as his nose embraces the smell of death against his will, _nothing I can’t handle._ He’s more than capable of it by now, that necessary disconnection— to be separated and aware of that reality at the same time. 

He’s more than capable of it, but that doesn’t mean he’s lost the ability to grieve. He didn’t deal their blows. Perhaps that’s why he can’t stomach the pain. The formality of feeling responsible for what he cannot do, rather than what he can, was a punishment ingrained in him by the family from which he is currently running.

He’ll run from this too. He doesn’t need to look upon another battlefield right now. The breath of the goddess will sweep the lighter bodies to their grave when it comes. He needs to stand somewhere out of her way, to stick to the corner and pretend to pray, hoping she will pass him over until the next draw of the string. 

The stallion whinnies and drags a hoof in his distress, slowing as they reach more uneven footing. It’s getting dark already. Clouds are covering too much of the sky for Sylvain’s liking. They gather where he knew the sun was once shining, a misshapen entity outlining an impressive fortress standing cold and forsaken.

If not for the heavy raindrops already disturbing the grime on his armor, Sylvain would turn south and ignore tempting his end. His horse, at least, deserves to be dry and warm. Still, he stalls a moment, swallowing the lump in his throat and feeling the waves of screaming bandits clog his ears. It’s been five years since he crept inside the Tower of Black Winds. He’d hoped to never have to return again. 

Sylvain has always hated the rain.

The only time he remembers it warm against his skin was during his sixteenth year. His father sent him to Galatea lands like an afterthought even with the day of his birth fast approaching. The Garland Moon is a popular time for celebrations in Faerghus, but a Margrave’s duty precedes that. Sylvain didn’t begrudge it then. He’d learnt how to make the most out of being left to his own devices— a little freedom could be stretched a long way. 

He’d spent the first week or so of his visit wrapping his arms around the waist of every girl who’d let him, only edging away when Ingrid pointed her spear into his back and nagged him along to their training grounds. Then, Glenn had died, and there was nothing he could do to forget it. Ingrid shut herself in her room, leaving him to discover his own method of grieving.

It could have been buried in some maiden’s neck, fingernails scratching away at her skin, trying to supplant the invisible tendrils of self detestation. It could have been, but instead it was here. He rode his horse to the edge of the Conand Tower, charmed the guards into letting him inside and slunk his way toward the top, teetering on the tips of his toes as he slanted his body against the inner walls of the lookout and peered at the dampening ground below. 

The sound of Wyverns in the distance cut through the tears slapping the stone canopy overhead. Those traveling from Derdriu to Faerghus can avoid Ailell completely with them, cutting straight through the Southern Sea of Sreng. Sylvain listened, and he didn’t think, and when the flapping of wings alongside the growls of leather-bound beasts faded completely, he reached forward to grasp at the illusion of nothing. Summer rain clung to his palms as he cupped them; it pooled faster than a single cycle of his breath. Sylvain watched it, _falling, falling, falling,_ as all else around him remained.

He’d never do such a thing in Gautier. Dry and cold is what Sylvain was used to. Rain is harsh on cracked, bleeding skin and brings little to harvest in the poor soil. He’s far from a farmer, but he knows to take cover all the same. You learn to dislike things when they’re sharp and sustained and hit you without warning.

It’s not warm this time- not even close. Under multiple layers of cloth and armor and furs, Sylvain shivers, tucked around a corner beyond the first flight of stairs. A thief bunkered here, five years prior, guarding an armorslayer like it was worth the entirety of his life. It might have been, Sylvain doesn’t know. His brother wasn’t exactly generous with giving them information about the immorality of _his_ actions, much less his subordinates.

Felix cut the thief down and took it anyway, leaving his back to Sylvain like always- nimble footwork alight with the promise of a protection they were both too young to understand the gravity of. He couldn’t save him from what was coming next. He couldn’t prevent any of the major events that followed until they were wretched apart to deal with the indignities of guiding their houses through warkeeping.

_“Why have you come, you Crest- bearing fool?”_

He hadn’t wanted to. Then, or now. Miklan was supposed to stay in the shadows— selfish, but quiet. Gautier men are known to keep their secret exploits hidden, but his brother had never acted in a familial sense. Sylvain went knowing that his brother wouldn’t hesitate to slaughter him in front of his friends, but his only intention was to retrieve the lance. It shouldn’t be in the hands of someone who was desperate enough to steal it on the principle of rage. It shouldn’t be in anyone’s hands, really. He glances at it from a few feet away where he’s leaned the tip shining upright at the ceiling. It’s the only thing he’s touched since they parted at the monastery that doesn’t keel over bleeding within the next few seconds. Hatred doesn’t even begin to cover his relationship with the weapon that’s become more intimate than the brush of his fingers against another’s unguarded throat. 

Hatred is the stone he’s skipped across the pond more times than he can count. He doesn’t even register the density in his hand. 

_“I don’t want to humiliate you, but I will.”_

Humiliation means nothing, he realizes now. Death is a furtive, yet effective, teacher. Byleth knew that, learned it far too young, tried to give them all some way of seeing without putting the frigid wisps of its veneer over the lavender latticework of their eyes.

_“If it hadn’t been for you…”_

A loud clap of thunder does little to rouse Sylvain from his memories— his heart having expected it. He pulls the furs up, covering the crux of his throat— the most exposed area while he’s wearing his armor. Lightning illuminates the bulk of busted barrels, sure to have once held useful rations, heaped haphazardly by the bloody cracks in the foundation he’d not noticed beforehand. Conand Tower, within all the records of history, does not inscribe any such damages, but with times how they are, he’s unsurprised. It’s no wonder nobody but him thought to hide here. Where is there to go that is safe anymore? 

_“Shut up and die already.”_

That was the least painful thing Miklan had said to him, if he was being honest with himself. You can only hear something so many times before it stops having the proper effect. There are so many ways to tell somebody that you want them dead. The most effective one was teaching them how to repeat it themselves. Hand over the yoke and pretend it’s a crown, pretend it’s a halo— the only route to forgiveness. 

He believed him for so long. He still does, in a way. Just enough to not throw it all away, just enough to cling to the fire of affection from the outside, never stoking the hearth.

Another flash and he sees Miklan’s body in front of him, mangled at an impossible angle, with ruptured guts joining the layer of filth already established on the stone floor. Byleth had dealt the finishing blow and Sylvain couldn’t force himself to look away, never expecting the pop of his eyes and the blood dribbling down his chin as he spent his final few moments choking for another curse to stick with him the way it did. Sylvain was the last to leave the spot where his corpse littered the ground, wracking his brain with the memories as if there was one thing that he could do to change their destiny, one move he could have made differently, many years before, when he was young enough to fling his arm around his older brother’s waist without fear.

Felix was the one who pulled him back. His nose nudged against the top of his spine, chilling him with his uneven breath. 

_“Sylvain.”_ He said, lower and gentler than Sylvain had ever heard him speak that close to his ear— with all the measure of someone who knows beyond a doubt that what they were saying was true. _“There was nothing you could do.”_

And how that had broken his heart— tenfold to hear from Felix. There was always something he could do. Always. Even when Miklan had been disinherited, Sylvain had managed to convince his father to send him away with some earnings and a slap on the wrist for his defiance. Even when Glenn had died, Sylvain knocked on the door to Ingrid’s room and brought her some bread and soup to sit beside her with a smile. Even when Felix was so small that he swore he could lift him with a single arm, he shifted him high onto his back and stood on his tiptoes so his best friend could claw at the apples hanging heavy just out of reach over their head. He bandaged his knees afterward when they fell and Felix rolled down the hill, empty-handed and red-faced while Dimitri wiped away his tears. 

That was the first time he’d found himself in a situation that was completely and invariably hopeless, because until then, one by one, everyone and everything he cared about would eventually come to be cradled in the balmy tincture of his hands. 

He rubs them together at the thought, shifting the furs. They’re too sweaty all of a sudden. He wants to take them off, like those freaky gloves Hubert would wear, never even removing them when he lingered in the sauna.

He kicks the imprisoning covers away, breathing heavier, fingers trembling as he grips his knees and pulls himself to his feet. There’s no way to tell how much time has passed since he took his reprieve. He’s antsy. He doesn’t need to be here. The worst of the storm has to have passed over now. It’s just a little rain. It’s just a little rain and he—

“Я нашел тебя!”

Sylvain stiffens, letting the lilting soprano voice slowly register in the break of silence. He thought he was alone. How could he have gotten so caught up in his mind that he missed another presence? It sounds young, the tongue familiar, though still untranslatable to his current knowledge. He should be more than prepared to defend himself from just one person, but he doesn’t trust his ears to tell him the truth at the moment. 

Over by the pile of barrels, something stirs. He reaches for his lance, the heart of the weapon reacting to the proximity of his blood as he brushes his fingers over it, stopping with a jolt of surprise when the lightning and thunder come in unison to reveal the shadow of his assailant. 

The fingers fall to his waist again. There’s no other movement. It’s just a little girl— impossibly undernourished. Her hair is limp, darkened with dirt and the oil of going long stretches of time without washing, but he can tell it’s a shade just like his own. Her honey brown eyes are striking even through the dullness of exhaustion, gray pallor drawn underneath them. She’s scared, but doesn’t seem frightened of him. 

Even so, watching her, he begins to kneel, lowering his head and doing his best to appear as non-threatening as possible. He smiles through his own exhaustion, unsure if caring for a child through the night and planning a way to the nearest orphanage come morning is really what he needs to be doing. The rest of the Blue Lions are probably ahead of him in their return by now, just by this little detour.

He lets the doubt fall away as soon as it peaks. He’s a cruel man sometimes, but not a heartless one, and he can’t deny the instinct to protect something so defenseless— especially someone with so similar an appearance. 

She blinks at him a few seconds longer, then starts stumbling forward. She’s weakened more than first impressions led him to believe and he almost runs to catch her as she tilts dangerously low to her side— almost. Something cements him to his spot, simply observing as she grits her teeth and steadies herself again, grasping at her elbow with her other arm and continuing. Not a single sound besides the shuffling of her destroyed moccasins trailing her steps interrupts the connection.

Reaching within inches of his kneecaps, Sylvain finally reacts to her advancement. A hand is gingerly placed on the top of her small skull, moving the clumps of underbrush away so he can see more of her gaunt face. 

“отец.” She says, peering up into his face with far too much familiarity and trust for someone she met during the climax of an early Winter storm. He furrows his brows, preparing to apologize for his inability to understand what she is calling him.

She leans in further before he can, the world’s tiniest fingernails, blackened with wilderness, trembling as they scrape against his knee plates trying to find a hold. Determined mouth set in a line, she moves her jaw in concentration, searching for the word she wants to use that both of them will understand. 

“отец.” She repeats, solemnly, like a prayer that only elucidates after it has been muttered multiple times to the heavens. Her eyes are open windows that draw him into the comfort of his own house. “Father.” 

Yeah, nothing good ever comes from the rain. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am always unsure of how to tag things, so if I missed something important I apologize— please let me know about it so I can edit!
> 
> This chapter contains a few paragraphs describing Sylvain’s reaction to piles of skeletons and a brief mention of broken bones.

There is a place that only Sylvain is sure he remembers, tucked away high and far at the eastern junction of Fraldarius and Gautier. It’s off limits, said to be cursed, but he was too young to heed either the rulings or the rumors. 

He visited it only once, when he was six. It was his second summer spent at Fraldarius and after a few weeks of the staff watching obsessively over the heirs, they finally tired enough for Sylvain to slip past the guards. Felix toddled after him, almost giving them away with his emphatic begging, until Sylvain slung him over his back, where he quieted— wide-eyed and sucking his thumb as he watched the red-haired rascal navigate the rocky terrain. 

It was a mistake, he knew, as soon as Felix fell heavy into slumber, slinking down his spine. The hill was larger and more treacherous than he thought— more like a small mountain— with withered grasses and crumbling grooves that would require tricky positions to advance. Yet, something that couldn’t be named drew him forward. There is a specific kind of bravery to be found in the curiosity of a child; it’s their second nature to believe in the sincerity of forever.

To this day he hopes Felix saw none of it. He didn’t look over his shoulder to check. He didn’t look at much of anything else for the rest of his stay. 

His feet found the massacre before his eyes did. What was once a human hand stretched right over the precipice, fingers dangling as if they’d perished calling for help that never came. Sylvain severed them underneath his sole on accident and stood there for what seemed like hours, listening to the way they bounced further and further downward off the ancient stratification. He stared, not really processing, at the dumping grounds of what was once a village, littered with the brittle framework of a fallen society.

Bodies, long since decayed, piled on top of each other, like a tower— like the houses he built of wooden sticks and blocks with Dimitri and Ingrid, just to be knocked over moments afterward by an attention seeking Felix. Sylvain knew how to handle that situation. He’d pull the younger boy into his arms, place his chin on the top of his head, and soothe him. Dimitri would gather the objects together again to stack them patiently, and Ingrid’s hands would follow the Prince’s, smoothing out any weaknesses she noticed in the foundation. 

There was nothing he knew of then that could resolve what he witnessed in the clearing. It would take something much stronger than a temper tantrum to whisk those skeletons away. It would require something greater than even him returning as a man with a shovel to bury them to bring them peace and dignity. Sylvain cannot forget it— how very small he felt as he compared his flesh and blood body to all of the ashen remains. Even considering the war he’s consorted and the death he’s dealt throughout the years, he has never seen so many bones gathered in one place. 

That place exists elsewhere now; it’s no longer a secret to be tucked away. Villages are plundered and burned before Barons and Counts and Dukes hear hide or hair of their destruction. Families are ripped apart, killed, or taken and sold. Across the dispersing ruins of Fodlan, rumors are realities— you don’t have to travel far to confirm them. There are plenty of fresh clearings to substitute the horrors of his juvenile expositions. 

There are other lives to consider. There are plenty of people left that he plans to prevent from falling to such a fate.

Sylvain holds the neglected child firm to his chest as she deeply slumbers. It’s the simplest instinct he has, something he can do without feeling— without thinking. She’s too tiny to risk drifting off himself; if he were to make a single sudden movement, he fears he could snap her in his arms. 

Circles darker than the craters of the moon under her eyes draw all the breath from his lungs. He’s never seen someone so tiny and exhausted. She looks as if she’s gone full years without proper care. He brushes matted locks like flames diving toward her forehead up and away. She whimpers at the touch, but, thankfully, does not wake. His own head swims as he tries to block out the memories being drawn forth by their location so he can focus on the situation at hand.

She called him Father.

It’s not like it was impossible. The resemblance was evident, even through the squalor. Red hair wasn’t exactly an anomaly the further North you traveled in Faerghus, but it was rare enough to eliminate some questions. House Gautier’s particular shade spoke much closer to the hue of their neighbors from over the border, and when he washes her in the morning, he’s fairly certain she will reflect it. It was her eyes, however, that hit him in a way that told him she was right. There was something about the shape of them— the way they flashed with conviction in the lightning. There was something that called him here, like it had called him to the top of the hill all those years ago. Here was somewhere he was meant to be— something he was meant to see. 

Truthfully, he’d expected this to happen someday, but not now— not like this. 

Sylvain is careful to avoid bumping her left arm as he cradles her. He cast recover as soon as she let him look at it, but he’s never been exceptional at white magic, and he’ll need to find an actual priest or bishop to check if the bones have been correctly reset. She didn’t cry before or after, but she’d thanked him, in his tongue, and shortly after crawled into his lap to indicate where she wanted to sleep. 

How long had it been since she truly rested? She was fairly unguarded around him in the short time he’d known her, yet she bore unmistakable signs of a solitary existence of survival. He knows, because much of his life in the past five years has revolved around the same situation— but he is a man, fully grown and capable, whereas she is the smallest thing he’s seen since he pulled Felix away from the cacophony of tumbling wooden pieces.

He can’t leave her. He can’t.

He can’t leave his friends either. Ingrid, whose house was held together with scraps of former dignity before all this happened. Felix, who rushes headfirst into danger despite lashing out at him for always stepping in to bear the consequences. Dimitri… His Highness…after all he’s lived through— there’s no way he’s gone. Sylvain refused to believe any of them were dead. 

His face dips lower, resting the tip of his forehead against her entire crown. He doesn’t even know her name yet. He hadn’t thought to ask. It was so stupid of him not to. She deserves a better father than him. He can take her with him, but what good does it do if he has nothing worthwhile to give? 

* * *

The sun hardly makes a difference to his eyes, but at least it warms their bodies. 

Sylvain tries not to wake the girl as he makes the necessary preparations to leave. His horse greets him rather silently as he approaches with her still in the same position she clung to as soon as he wrapped her fully in his arms. His… _daughter_ weighs less than the stone refusing to disintegrate in his stomach. He hardly notices the difference when he sets her safely under a shaded overhang by the wall where he’s tied the stallion. She’s swaddled deep into his furs and shows no sign of stirring.

He can’t wait much longer; it’s already too late to get a full day's ride in. He also can’t bear to rouse her, so he grabs another one of his furs and ties it multiple times across his back and chest until it works as a makeshift sling. Sylvain shuffles her as gently as he can into it and rakes the knots of her hair together, tying it back with some string. 

It isn’t much, but it’s something. Long hair is a hassle while you’re on horseback and he doesn’t want the winds to whip it in her face. He swallows yet another stone at the sight of how sunken her cheekbones are. He has to hurry to the Monastery. Mercedes, if she is alive, wouldn’t miss their reunion for anything. She’d know how to nurse the child back to health. If she’s not there, well... hopefully he can come across a healer somewhere along the way. 

He starts slow, trotting away from the tower to the South. Once he reaches the mountains that separate Galatea lands from Daphnel of the Alliance he can follow them all the way down to Garreg Mach. It’s harsher conditions the nearer to the jagged terrain he remains, but it’s surefire, and he can't afford to waste any more time. It’s not just that he knows everyone is waiting for him— now he has another person depending on him to keep them alive.

Regardless, he directs the horse to move cautiously. He pulls as far away from the divide as he dares, straying closer when he passes by Galatea at the end of the road where it overlaps to Charon. The urge to veer west to check on Ingrid, to drop in at the stables he frequented well enough in his youth that the older horses would recognize him, makes him shiver with longing. 

_No. She’s not there. We’ve got to keep going._

Ingrid was too stubborn, too ambitious in her ideals. With all due respect to her father, she wouldn’t stay put in such a calamity. Not when there was a beacon of hope— a chance to fight beside their Professor again. Besides, with the war how it is and Galatea’s already scarce resources further dwindling, there’s a good chance those stables are empty.

The child stretches, pressing firmer against his chest and finally opening her bleary eyes to blink up at him in confusion. Sylvain smiles at her, slowing the horse again so she can hear his reassurance.

“Hey. It’s okay. You looked really tired, so I let you sleep, but we had to leave. You’re safe here.”

He doesn’t have a lot of practice with children, but Felix has always been rather sensitive and prickly, so he figures it’s similar enough to proceed with confidence.

She nods, rubbing at the sockets of her eyes and yawning. She snuggles against his chest like it isn’t covered in filthy, dented armor and sighs. Sylvain’s heart is struck with a pang of affection. It’s really cute. 

She’s quiet as she adjusts herself into a higher position, staring at the scenery as he urges the horse faster again. Travel is already more peaceful with her company than he’s experienced for a long time, so he lets it go on for a while before he remembers that he still doesn’t know what to call her. 

“I know you called me...father, but my name’s Sylvain. What would like me to call you?”

She mumbles her answer, refusing to pull back from his chest and speak loud enough to be heard over the slicing of air. 

“What’s that sweetheart? Sorry, it’s hard to hear when we’re going this fast, but I shouldn’t slow down again.” 

Fingernails scratch at the dents of his chestplate as she pushes away, dry lips moving clearly enough that he could read the words there even if her voice didn’t cut through him loud as the thunder that announced her arrival.

“Serafima.” She says, all of the fires of Aillel dancing their determination in the mettle of her voice. “Gautier. Mother said run to Gautier.”

**Author's Note:**

> My undying love for Dadvain in every form met a brainworm handed to me in a discord server by a friend and now I’ve tasked myself with this darkfic.
> 
> Tags will be updated with the chapters! Triggers will be in the notes just in case they’re missed. If you notice any, please don’t hesitate to note them.
> 
> Big thank you to A03 user furo for being my Beta!


End file.
